Pane

There will be a scientific reason
why I see my face upon the glass,
something to do with the light levels
on the inside and the outside,
something to do with the way that I feel
and the way that I see
through eyes stained with life.

Outside seeps through my face through all the things I ever knew, it’s the smear across the fragile glass distorts the actual imagery. For you or I the picture is the same but what we see is skewed, refracted differently.

Sometimes when we are close I see the world through you, a different sun-slant beyond the pane a different kiss of light upon the sea, warm as your hand the wind with feathered clouds sings soft and free.

At night the image, less opaque, is always me. Only the brightest hanging windows burn through the silver sheen, lattice my face: but when the light’s switched off the veil is gone and in cold clarity the night glows on.